


ropeburn

by deepscholar



Category: Rope (1948)
Genre: Canon Relationship, M/M, Short, leading up to the canon story, pre-plot, some mild language like once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-04 05:51:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12162798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepscholar/pseuds/deepscholar
Summary: phillip and brandon awaken on the morning of the day on which they shall murder david kentley.





	ropeburn

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS JUST A REALLY SHORT THING WHICH I DONT REALLY LIKE AT ALL!!!  
> im planning on writing a whole separate fixfic for rope later on, but this was just kinda a warm-up for me to get the hang of writing phillip and brandon  
> they have a really great dynamic and i feel pretty comfortable mostly, but im still workin on it  
> in the meantime have this

“Today's the day.”

At those words, Phillip opened his eyes, and immediately they stung.  
Lying on his back had never felt comfortable while he slept and he wondered exactly why he had not been twisting and turning during the night, but when he attempted to scour back across the border of sleep, he could recall no dream. A senseless void, beneath which beat his small heart, distant, like a ticking time bomb.  
When his eyes had adjusted ever so slightly, he felt a shift on his left which told him of Brandon's full consciousness, as always. Scarcely had Brandon ever expressed great fatigue in the morning, too eager to drive his words and his ego into the world on the new day. To make a mark.  
Today they were to make a deep one – at least so Phillip thought – but a secret one.

Brandon too lay flat on his back, and with a satisfied and leisurely sigh he slowly stretched out his arms and folded them widely across his pillow, his hands behind his head, and Phillip could tell by his breathing that he had closed his eyes in pleasant relaxation, as often he did.  
The drawing in of a quiet breath stroked Phillip's senses with the aroma of sweet roses, and the stale salt of his own sweat, which had crept along his back; he now felt it when he shuffled, and he turned onto his right side to stare away into the pale light of the bedroom. 

“What are you thinking, Phillip?”  
Brandon's voice was clear and drawling, rather quiet when he was not addressing one of his usual small audiences, yet still perfectly expressive, an actor for all seasons.  
“Nothing.”  
Phillip's voice came out more hushed than he had intended, and it broke slightly.  
Another shifting against the sheets, a longer one this time, and he felt Brandon rest his chin in the crook of his neck, the shape of his face against his skin suggesting a gentle smile.  
For a minute or two they remained still, before a small sigh and a fidgeting from Phillip initiated a drawing back, and he whispered that he was going to get himself a glass of water. There was a terrible taste clasping his tongue.

**

“Just think about it, Phillip,” murmured Brandon between gritted teeth as he fussed with the front of Phillip's maroon blazer.  
“Think about what it is we're going to accomplish today.”  
Looking up from Brandon's tie, which he was adjusting with his flat white pianist's hands, he caught in his eyes that glint of slightly perverted excitement which only appeared when he was truly and utterly enraptured with an idea, snatched away and tumbling down the trail by which his fantasies took him.  
No, not tumbling. Brandon Shaw never tumbled. He glided, like a skater whose footing has been tested and he has simply improvised his step.  
He made things all right as far as he tried to make them fuck up.  
Swallowing, Phillip suddenly remembered when he had first realised that he was completely besotted with this man.  
Nothing had changed except himself; insides shifting, blood running thick in his veins, hot, cold; phases of doubt, fear, distance; all to be eventually tugged in one solid and graceful motion, like ribbons, like rope, out of his body by Brandon, and for Phillip to be swept away by that same old devotion and breathless adoration, and to fall into the arms of his lover.

Now, here, he was stuck.

Trapped between this hungry, starving infatuation, and this absolute mortifying fear by which he was stricken.  
To kill a man, you must be willing to burn.  
Phillip was not. But he would kill anyway, he would kill for this, for love and for godhood. For Brandon's, anyway.

“Brandon.”  
“Yes, Ph-Phillip?”  
“...Brandon, are you-”  
“Yes, I'm _sure_ ,” and Phillip's face was in Brandon's firm, cold hands, chin up and neck bare, throat bobbing once. Brandon's teeth were just about visible behind his lips, flashing, like those of a great white shark.  
“I'm _sure_ that this will work, I'm _sure_ that we will succeed, I'm _sure_ , for God's _sakes_ , that we will be fine, and you know why that is.”  
“Brandon-”  
“Phillip.”

Silence, tense. Their shoulders heaved and Phillip's mouth hung open, Brandon's jaw clenching and unclenching. The bedroom's quiet hung heavy, perfumed air at once becoming clutching and caressing of their restless selves, and far, far down on the sunny streets, in the partial shade of a cafe's parasol, a spider clung to its web as it was torn right through the middle by the prying fingers of a vacant-eyed waiter, all that intricate weaving gone to waste.

Phillip's collar had turned up slightly, and his tie was askew. Brandon stared a little longer before setting upon the imperfection. The door buzzer sounded.

**

Click. The light switched on with a gentle sound.  
“Don't.”  
Pause. Click. The pale yellow glow was vanquished as soon as it was conjured.  
“...We've got to see if-”  
“-I know. But... not just yet. Let's stay this way for a minute.”

Brandon produced a cigarette and lit that instead.

As if in post-orgasmic languor and weariness, perched on the side of the chest in which now dwellt their spoils, Phillip hunched over, breathless and staring. The rope-burn, he pondered, would never go away, not even with it's sting being lessened by the gloves. He should have to play at his concert with hands aching from his crime, forever living life in slow time in which every second is buzzing agony on his shoulders and in his brain.  
In amongst the deluge, Brandon's voice, quiet and stern, said something that sounded like his name.


End file.
